Not only did they have to take Atlas away in an ambulance, they also had to call an ambulance for me because I couldn’t breathe. It was the first and only panic attack I’ve ever had.
No one would tell me where he was or if he was even okay. My father wasn’t even arrested for what he’d done. Word got out that Atlas had been staying in that old house and that he had been homeless. My father became revered for his heroic act—saving his little girl from the homeless boy who manipulated her into having sex with him.
My father said I’d shamed our whole family by giving the town something to gossip about. And let me tell you, they still gossip about it. I heard Katie on the bus today telling someone she tried to warn me about Atlas. She said she knew he was bad news from the moment she laid eyes on him. Which is crap. If Atlas had been on the bus with me, I probably would have kept my mouth shut and been mature about it like he tried to teach me to be. Instead, I was so angry, I turned around and told Katie she could go to hell. I told her Atlas was a better human than she’d ever be and if I ever heard her say one more bad thing about him, she’d regret it.
She just rolled her eyes and said, “Jesus, Lily. Did he brainwash you? He was a dirty, thieving homeless kid who was probably on drugs. He used you for food and sex and now you’re defending him?”
She’s lucky the bus stopped at my house right then. I grabbed my backpack and walked off the bus, then went inside and cried in my room for three hours straight. Now my head hurts, but I knew the only thing that would make me feel better is if I finally got it all out on paper. I’ve been avoiding writing this letter for six months now.
No offense, Ellen, but my head still hurts. So does my heart. Maybe even more right now than it did yesterday. This letter didn’t help one damn bit.
I think I’m going to take a break from writing to you for a while. Writing to you reminds me of him, and it just all hurts too much. Until he comes back for me, I’m just going to keep pretending to be okay. I’ll keep pretending to swim, when really all I’m doing is floating. Barely keeping my head above water.
—Lily
I close the journal after reading the last page.
I don’t know what to feel because I feel everything. Rage, love, sadness, happiness.
I’ve always hated that I couldn’t remember most of that night no matter how hard I tried to think back on every word that was said between us. The fact that Lily wrote it all down is a gift—albeit a sad one.
There were so many things about that time in my life that I was afraid she was too fragile to hear. I only wanted to protect her from the negative stuff going on in my life, but reading her words has shown me that she didn’t need protecting from it. If anything, she could have helped me through it.
It makes me want to write her another letter, but even more, it makes me want to be in her presence, talking about these things face-to-face. I know we’re taking things slow, but the more I’m around her, the more impatient I am to be around her again.
I stand up to take the journal inside and to grab something to drink for the wait, but I pause as soon as I come to a stand. There’s a streetlight at the other end of the alley creating a spotlight on the building, and there’s a shadow moving across the light. The shadow travels across the building in the other direction, as if whatever is casting the shadow is coming my way. I back up a step so that I can remain hidden.
Someone eventually comes into view. A kid closes in on the back door.
I don’t know if this kid is my brother, but it’s definitely the same person I saw on the security footage at Corrigan’s. The same clothes, the same hoodie tightened around their face.
I remain hidden and watch them, becoming more and more convinced by the second that it’s exactly who I think it is. He’s built like me. He even moves like me. I’m filled with anxious energy because I want to meet him. I want to tell him that I’m not angry and that I know what he’s going through.
I’m not sure I was even angry at whoever was doing this before I knew it could potentially be my brother. It’s hard to be angry at a kid, but it’s especially hard to be angry at one who was raised by the same woman who attempted to raise me. I know what it’s like to have to do what you can to survive. I also know what it’s like when you’d do anything to get someone’s attention. Anyone’s. There were times in my childhood I just wanted to be noticed, and I have a feeling that’s exactly what’s going on here.
He’s hoping to be caught. This is more a cry for attention than anything.
He walks right up to the back door of the restaurant without an ounce of hesitation. This place has become familiar to him. He checks the back door to see if it’s locked. When it doesn’t open, he pulls a new can of spray paint out of his hoodie. I wait for him to lift it, and that’s when I decide to make my presence known.
“You’re holding it wrong.” My voice startles him. When he spins around and looks up at me and I see how young he really is, my heartstrings stretch so tight, it feels like they’re about to pop. I try to imagine Theo out here alone in the middle of the night like this.
There’s still a youthfulness to the fear in his eyes. When I start walking toward him, he backs up a step, looking around for a quick escape. But he doesn’t attempt to run.
I’m sure he’s curious about what’s going to happen. Isn’t this why he’s been showing up here night after night?
I hold out my hand for the can of spray paint. He hesitates, but then hands it to me. I demonstrate how to hold it the proper way. “If you do it like this, it won’t drip. You hold it too close.”
Every emotion is running across his face as he studies me, from anger to fascination to betrayal. The two of us are quiet as we take in just how much we look alike. We both took after our mother. Same jawline, same light eyes, same mouths, down to the unintentional frown. It’s a lot for me to take in. I’ve been resigned to the idea that I had no family, yet here he is in the flesh. It makes me wonder what he’s feeling while he looks back at me. Anger, obviously. Disappointment.
I lean a shoulder against the building, looking down at him with complete transparency. “I didn’t know you existed, Josh. Not until a few hours ago.”
The kid shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and looks at his feet. “Bullshit,” he mutters.
The hardness in him at such a young age makes me sad. I ignore the anger in his response and pull my keys out to unlock the back door to the restaurant. “You hungry?” I hold the door open for him.
He looks like he wants to run, but after a moment of indecision, he ducks his head and walks inside.
I flip on the lights and make my way into the kitchen. I grab the ingredients to make him a grilled cheese and I start cooking while he walks around slowly, taking everything in. He touches things, opens drawers, cabinets. Maybe he’s taking inventory for the next time he decides to break in. Or maybe his curiosity is a cover for his fear.
I’m plating his food when he finally speaks up. “How do you know who I am if you didn’t know I existed?”
This feels like it could lead to a lengthy conversation, and I’d rather have it while he’s more comfortable. There isn’t a table back here with seating, so I motion toward the doors that lead into the dining room. There’s enough light from the exit signs that I don’t have to power up the dining room lights.
“Sit here.” I point to table eight and he takes a seat in the exact spot our mother sat in earlier tonight. He starts eating as soon as I set his food down. “What do you want to drink?”
He swallows, and then shrugs. “Whatever.”
I go back to the kitchen and pour him a glass of ice water and then slide into the booth across from him. He drinks half of it in one gulp.
“Your mother showed up here tonight,” I say. “She’s looking for you.”
He makes a face that indicates he doesn’t care, and then he continues eating.
“Where have you been staying?”
“Places,” he says with a mouthful.
“Are you in school?”
